


Burn

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Experimental Style, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s gone, now, and the fire’s gone, and you see her eyes—red, tired, dead. And there’s rust on your trident, your scepter. You’re the queen here, remember? And here’s your serf, at your feet like she ought to be, but you hate her. You hate this because she can’t even bow down to your properly. You hate because her staring, rust red eyes tell you that you played right in her hands like a reel suckerfish. She’s won, but you don’t know why. Not until—</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Otomatonom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otomatonom/gifts).



_Burning. Burning. Burning. Wands raised, a conductor—a real joke, reaching out with needles—sticks, just sticks, nothing lethal. Nothing to worry yourself over. Nothing, like She’s going to be when you’re through. This impudent Demoness, a burden on you for centuries when—do you even remember? Rebellions. Nightmares. Burning. It hurts, but you brush it off. A bit of lost latex isn’t anything. She’s done._

 

Great Dread Empress, long ago, you learned to fear Witches. And you hated the lowbloods for their powers that you so coveted—the psychics and sorcerers and Mages that reminded you of _Her_.

In the Elder Days, when you were subject to a tyrant less terrible and hell-bent, you were left a pauper presiding along the borders of land and sea. You found refuge and sympathy in none but your own hands. That was the creed of your lusus, whose loyalty still lay with the queen you were destined to dethrone.

In your Heart, you bred hatred and resentment with each of your kin killed. Again and again, they found you and tried their hands at presenting your head to their queen. Each day, you were not spared a ‘coon, save in the hovels whose masters you slew—where you found temporary shelter before moving on, a Vagabond in the dark.

Yet, always, She appeared in your dreams. She would run the tendrils of foul black majykk through your head and Heart until you died and were reborn without mercy. A Prometheus Doomed to Life—whose living epitaph read, “Here is slain The Impudent, The Unworthy”—your youth was plagued by a Rustblood Witch who never aged and never tired in fomenting dread nightmares in your wake and sleep.

They say She existed since time immemorial—a phantom of an ancient world whose golden era was long buried in desert sands, crushed to dust with the slow crawl of continents across the planet’s surface. Where She went, death always followed. They say She was the stoker of the ancestral visions that reminded you of your bloodied history and afforded you visions of a bleak and Hopeless future. In war, She was the false wraith that turned friend against friend, quadrantmate against quadrantmate, caste against caste. Always, She dwelled on the border of myth and truth, but never did you doubt the veracity of the old tales—you were in enough of them to know.

In the festertongues of the Beast you called Mother, She whispered to you,  _Take your right to rule, or perish._

 

 _Aim for the Heart. You’ll_ steal _her_ Life _away, and you laugh, but you don’t remember why. That meant something to you, but that was_ so long ago _. So long that—shit. You miss. Bitch sets your hair on fire with—with rainbow pyrotechnics? You stomp it out. Consider a haircut or braids, like when you were a girl. When was that? This present's past? How far back? It doesn’t matter._

 

You coveted wealth. You coveted your birthright. You cared nothing for justice or pity or concupiscent hate—only vengeance. The moment you came of age, you tore asunder palace gates and culling drones and the frail rib cage of your predecessor. You did not withhold a Glub that consumed the lower castes, stopping shy of jadebloods and Mothers. You forced the highbloods, now bereft of their servants, to bow down to your authority.

You became Queen and your title Condescension—and you would reign forever.

You would rewrite the mythology of your world, and, at a distance, you would coddle each tyrianblood born. In their short lives, they would attend to your insatiable Beast, remaining easily culled like squealbeasts to slaughter.

None who challenged you lived.

 

 _She’s gone, now, and the fire’s gone, and you see her eyes—red, tired, dead. And there’s rust on your trident, your scepter. You’re the queen here, remember? And here’s your serf, at your feet like she ought to be, but you hate her. You hate this because she can’t even bow down to your properly. You_ hate _because her staring, rust red eyes tell you that you played right in her hands like a_ reel suckerfish _. She’s won, but you don’t know why. Not until—_

_—not until some ugly motherglubber stares you down._

 

Though your power was immense, your war campaign unyielding, your subjects tamed by fear, your coffers envied by the greatest of gamblignants, She remained a thorn in your side. Petty insurrections were predominant in your rule, and as each was smote under the war banners of those loyal to you, rumors crept into your court, rumors of that Demoness, foreboding whispers among the subjuggulators of end times that, to you, hardly concerned them.

What significance were prophecies to the near-immortal—children's imaginings you’d live to see die?

But, Empress, what if they were true?

And unto you, some centuries after rebellions that troubled your empire, when your psychic reach to Gl’bgolyb waned in wake of your insatiable greed, was born a Witch—though you did not know it. Far too much like you, so you heard. A capable threat with the Beast at her beckoning. So be it. It should’ve been an omen, but (so you told yourself) you weren’t one for superstitions.

Stories of a Demon of a different sort became the pastime of those clown cult worshippers. In their bloodpulpits, they foretold of the Vast Honk, what you assumed to be a sacrilegious bastardization of the Glub. False Messiahs. An end to your reign.

The rise of their MASTER—a LORD over kings. Queens. The fools amused you enough not to wipe out their caste, but often did your trident bleed purple when such audacity preceded them. In Time and in your hubris, you let yourself forget of the Witch and the clowns' Lord. And it wasn't until, 612 sweeps ago to the hour, you realized your folly.

 

 _You reach over and clean your trident on the edges of her dress not soaked in death, and you give him a gander. What a joke. A great green goliath, and his eyes are burning, rolling, about to pop out. He motions to you; he has a gun—scepter? And he tells you_ things _—_ _  
_

)(IC: yo there BUOY  
)(IC: who the FUCK are you

You learn—she was his cipher. His puppet. The Demoness of your waking nightmares—reduced to petulant servitude as Handmaid. But, at last, she's dead.

He goes on and on about being the great LORD OF TIME WHOSE PRESCIENCE blah blah blah blah UNIVERSE blah BLEW UP blah blah SERVANT—

And that makes you pause, but you aren't stupid enough to try anything. War has told you when you're outmatched and when cunning and patience will serve your porpoise. So, you let him bullshit. And you plan.

And he makes you an offer he won't let you refuse.

At the cost of your sovereignty, at the cost of becoming a Witch yourself, you're given the powers you envied in your youth.

 

_—and your blood boils hot, and your skin burns hot, and you contemplate throwing your 2x3dent straight at his—_

_But, he has a gun. And you can give Life and take Life but never for yourself. So, you do nothing except stare back and bare your teeth. You’re the queen here, remember? And you won’t bow down._

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL PROMPT: Her Imperious Condescension has ruled over her home planet, and the rest of the galaxy for that matter, for a long time. The Vast Glub was an unfortunate happenstance; the battle with the Time Witch was infinitely satisfying.
> 
> Being forcefully signed on as Lord English's new henchwoman was not something she would stand for. I would like some introspective Condie in her first moments meeting Lord English and realizing her position. Bonus points for sassiness and a general I don't fucking care about this 'Lord of the Universe' bullshit I'mma kill this bitch so hard one day.
> 
> Extra loving ice cream points for terrible, terrible fish puns.


End file.
